


swing my heart across the line

by sakurablossomcreamlatte



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and injury mention, Dipper and Mabel are babies in this, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, In a way, Jewish Pines Family, Mentions of alcohol, Mentions of homelessness, Minor Character Death, Pines Family Bonding, Stanuary, Stanuary 2021, Wakes & Funerals, listen we all know Stan's life story and it's not pretty, seriously there's a bunch of funerals in this, some swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29124207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakurablossomcreamlatte/pseuds/sakurablossomcreamlatte
Summary: A look at Stan's relationship with his family, across thirty years.(for Stanuary 2021! written for the Week 4 prompt ‘future’ and additional prompt #56 ‘brother’.)
Relationships: Dipper Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Filbrick Pines & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Sherman "Shermie" Pines & Stan Pines, Stan Pines & Caryn Romanoff Pines, Stan Pines & Original Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64
Collections: Stanuary





	swing my heart across the line

**Author's Note:**

> sooooo Stan doesn't get enough attention in some of my stories and I decided to change that. although I feel like I should apologise to him for all the years of suffering
> 
> things to note: 
> 
> 1\. the timeline I worked out would put Stan and Ford as being born in 1954, making them 27 years old when Stan travels to Gravity Falls in 1982 and 57-58 in the series, and for the purpose of the story I put Shermie as being seven or eight years older than them. this would put Dipper and Mabel's dad as being born around 1972. the characters of Dipper and Mabel's parents are more or less built from my own personal headcanons since we know very little about them from the series. 
> 
> 2\. I'm neither Jewish nor American, so everything I've researched about Jewish funeral customs is gleaned from the internet. I can only hope I've made it plausible and if there's anything I've got wrong please don't hesitate to let me know in the comments! I gladly welcome all feedback. 
> 
> aside from all of that, does what it says on the tin.

_February 1982_

It takes Stan the better part of three days to find the documents he needs to become Stanford Filbrick Pines. The birth certificate’s wadded up in the back of a drawer in - it looks like a study? Except for the fact that there’s a freaking _cage_ in one corner. It doesn’t escape Stan’s attention that the bars look like they’ve been chewed through by something with sharp teeth. The social security card is partially torn, but more or less intact, tucked into a research book about... anomalies. Of course. This was Ford, after all. 

_Is,_ Stan has to remind himself forcefully. _We’re twins. I’d know if he was gone. I’d feel it._

That’s the only thing he can tell himself, and when he realises that he’s shaking, he doesn’t know if it’s the cold or the weight of just _how_ badly he fucked up this time. 

The driving licence is the final hurdle, and he eventually locates it sticking up between the floorboards near one of the kitchen cabinets. Judging by the looks of things, it’s probably the only purpose the kitchen even served to Ford in the last few months. Stan wriggles the little laminated card free and squints at it in the rapidly fading afternoon light. 

_Date of issue: 04-13-76. LN: Pines. FN: Stanford Filbrick. Address: 618 Gopher Rd, Gravity Falls, OR. D.O.B.: 06-15-54._

The picture’s taken against a red background. There are shadows under Ford’s eyes - nowhere near as deep and dark as the ones he’d encountered at the other end of the crossbow, but still present - and his glasses are slightly askew, but he’s smiling. 

Stan swallows the lump in this throat and shoves the licence into the envelope with the other documents. 

Ford’s house is freezing, pervasively so. It bites through Stan’s jacket and chills his skin, numbing his fingers and toes through his boots if he doesn’t move - and there are times when he doesn’t, sitting and staring into space as he wonders how the hell he’s going to pull this off. And the place is cold in more ways than one; where it’s not dark, the remains of his brother’s experiments are lit up by icy blue fluorescent light. It’s more of a giant lab than a home. The couch is buried under books and scattered papers, and there are piles of bills and notices haphazardly swept aside in the hallway with increasingly ominous-looking red stamps - ‘URGENT’, ‘DO NOT IGNORE’ and the like. Stan’s wearily familiar with those. 

What he’s not familiar with is the way Ford’s name is scratched out to the point that the pen’s torn through the paper of the envelope, the symbols surrounding it - _triangles? and what the fuck even are these... like, runes or some shit?_

And he _really_ doesn’t want to be familiar with the dried red splotches he finds on most of the papers around the house, on the edges of the bathroom sink and the mirrors, just a little too haphazardly splashed and rust-coloured to be ink. 

* * *

_April 1982_

“I hate this,” Sherman says on the other end of the line, over in California. Their older brother’s voice wavers in the static, and Stan realises that yes, it was indeed possible to hate himself more than he did before. “I hate it, Stanford. I should’ve done more.” 

Stan doesn’t reply. It’s one thing to pretend to be Ford in this town, where nobody even knew him because he never left the goddamn house. It’s another thing to impersonate him to his own family. 

It’s better this way. He has the name and face of Stanford Pines. Stanley Pines can be forgotten now, stay dead and buried where he deserves to be… but even so, there are still going to be those misguided, mercifully unaware souls like his elder brother who might mourn for him. 

Sherman’s still talking. “I should’ve noticed he was in trouble - hell, I wondered sometimes. When I went to pick David up after Dad kicked him out - Mom just said it was an argument, and then - I don’t know. Hannah and I had so much to deal with; we were both working, David was just a baby...” he falters, voice cracking under the pressure of his welling emotions - like they’ll spill over into the receiver, seeping down the line to Stan, a whole state away. “I didn’t realise it was permanent until we went back for Thanksgiving and… it was just you. And then California happened, and I was so far away from you guys - I… I wish I could tell him I’m sorry, but…” his voice rises, cracks again, “...how the hell can I do that now?” 

Stan still remembers that first Thanksgiving, as much as he wishes he could forget. He’d eaten two hot dogs from a cart near the pier, drank three quarters of a bottle of vodka he’d snagged from the liquor store a few blocks down and allowed himself to turn the Diablo’s heating on for once. It’s amazing what can become a treat when you don’t have a roof over your head. 

It wasn’t like Sherman didn’t try, though - same for Ma. He’d see her on the street in Glass Shard sometimes, looking lost, her dark eyes anxious and searching, but he’d just turn away - she didn’t need to know. Whenever he was able to secure a motel, he’d send her the address, just to check in - that would have been how Ford tracked him down in New Mexico, almost certainly, and the information was almost definitely passed on to Sherman. And Sherman had reached out, offered to let him stay in the apartment in Hoboken - “...but we’ve only got the two rooms, so I guess you’d have to share with David, and he’s teething right now...” 

Sherman had a job, a wife and a kid. He had it good. He didn’t need an idiot teenage dropout brother screwing up what he had, too. 

“Don’t worry about it, Sherm - it’s just temporary. Stanco’s gonna be big, I can feel it.”

Back in the present, Stan feels cold - and nauseous. His skin’s crawling - but there’s a dull fuzz of static on the other end of the line, indicating that Sherman needs a response. He inhales and swallows, consciously reworking his normal gravelly tone to Ford’s pitch - softer, more mellow. 

“You can’t blame yourself, Shermie.” It wavers for a second, but he holds it, pushes through. He has to sell it like he sells the mysteries now paying Ford’s mortgage. “It wasn’t your fault. Any of it.” 

A shaky inhale on the other end, followed by a rush of static as Sherman exhales into the receiver. “Not sure how true that is, but... I appreciate that.” The eldest Pines brother hesitates. “Ma said they want to do the funeral - _shiva_ and all - next week. Three days, back in Glass Shard. I know it’s a long way for both of us, but… you’ll come, right?”

That’s absolutely the last thing Stan wants to do. It gives him an almost visceral sense of repulsion - to wear Ford’s face, to pretend to pay his respects to himself in front of the man who rejected him so violently a decade ago. To pretend he’s made something of himself - and not even from his own dreams, but his brother’s. 

And yet... Ford was the one who asked him to come to this godforsaken town in the first instance - because even after ten years, there had to be some level of trust there. Some tiny shred of the relationship they once had must have remained, buried beneath Ford’s bitter anger and resentment, that drove him to write that postcard in the first place. 

If it really was the other way round, Stan knows he’d do it. For everything that happened, they’re still brothers. They’re still family. And Sherman’s still family, too. If he can’t do it for Pa, he can do it for them. 

He can only hope that Ford would do the same, but somewhere - he’s not sure if it’s conviction, or just desperate, pleading hope, but he feels like he knows the answer to that. 

Stan exhales, as his stomach twists and roils in knots like the dark, churning sea. “Yeah. I’ll be there.” 

* * *

It’s horrible, and bizarre. Stan puts on a _yarmulke_ out of obligation, if nothing else, and it feels like it’s going to fall off his head the entire time. Sherman is quiet, and he’s a little bigger than Stan remembers and there are dark shadows under his eyes - but he pulls him into a hug, and he smells like fabric softener and aftershave. His wife and kid - Hannah and David - hug him too, sombre and respectful, but they probably can’t mourn as deeply for somebody they barely knew. 

“Your hands…” Sherman murmurs, turning Stan’s over in his own, staring at the healed incisions at the edges - Stan’s nothing if not committed to his stories, and after Colombia, pain’s little more than a nuisance to him. 

“Yeah, well,” Stan tugs his hand away and shoves it into his pocket. “Finally got insurance that’d cover it now, y’know?” 

Seeing Ma is infinitely the most painful. She’s thinner than she used to be; her collarbone juts out above the collar of her black dress, and her gold bracelets hang off her almost bird-like wrists. She still has that big, silky, poofy bun in her hair, now streaked with grey, and her dark, carefully outlined eyes are rimmed with red. When she hugs him, the vice that tightens around his chest isn’t just from the frantic grip of her slender arms. 

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she whispers into the fabric of his jacket, and Stan doesn’t know who she’s apologising to. The scars on the edges of his hands - less than ten minutes’ work, if longer healing - practically burn, like the brands of a liar. 

Pa is as impassive as ever, tweed sports coat switched out for a black suit and pork pie hat switched out for a _yarmulke_ \- it makes him look shorter, in a way - and his jaw is clenched tighter than usual. People take his hands and murmur their condolences, and he just keeps his head bowed, nodding almost imperceptibly as his mouth twitches beneath his moustache, but he says very little. 

The cold, sinking sensation of - disappointment? hurt? - settles in Stan’s stomach. _Come on, ya yutz. Are you even really surprised?_

It doesn’t make it any less painful to realise he’s not. 

Sherman’s son David is a nice kid; a cute combination of Sherman and his wife, with warm brown eyes, what looks like the early stages of the Pines family nose, and a mop of chestnut-coloured curls that spill out from beneath his _yarmulke_. He comes and sits next to Stan in the living room on the first afternoon of the _shiva_ , kicking his feet under the seat of the low chair, and asks him if he knows anything about astronomy. 

“Not really,” Stan says, “but the stars are pretty nice out in the sticks, I guess.” 

David just smiles up at him and tells him about his favourite constellations. It’s a pleasant respite from the tense and heavy atmosphere, if a little painfully reminiscent of Ford and his obsession with anomalies, but Stan still appreciates it more than the kid would probably know. 

Stan sees it out until the end of the second day, and then - he just can’t take it any more. Half these people barely gave a shit when Stanley Pines was alive, kicked to the curb to make it on his own - except Ma and Sherman, and they deserve better; they deserve to move on and forget. Sherman has his own family now - a good job, a pretty wife, a cute son and a nice little house in the suburbs of San Francisco. And Pa can bask in Ford’s achievements all he wants, but Ma was the one who encouraged and nurtured, the one who deserves to take pride in them. So Stan hugs her again, presses a kiss to her hair and tells her he has to get back to Oregon to finish an important research paper. He hugs Sherman and Hannah and thanks them for everything they’ve done to organise all this, and ruffles David’s hair and tells him to keep looking at the stars. 

It’s as he’s opening the door to leave that he encounters his father for hopefully the last time.

“Stanford,” Filbrick says. His voice is still as hard as steel, and it still strikes an instinctive fear into Stan’s heart - but he’s Ford now. The son he deigned to be proud of. 

Stan stares at his own reflection in his father’s dark glasses, and it’s amazing how many details and intricacies he can make out through Ford’s horn-rimmed frames - like how the old man’s jaw isn’t as strong as he thought it was, the streaks of grey littering his hair. 

He shouldn’t be wearing these. When he gets back to Oregon the first thing he needs to do is go to an optometrist and get his own. 

The pause is heavy, and Stan realises that he doesn’t remember what colour his father’s eyes are. 

Maybe there’s other things the old man wants to say. Maybe he did have the capacity to care about his own goddamn sons. Maybe he has some regrets for throwing a seventeen year old into the street with nothing but a haphazardly packed gym bag. 

But Filbrick doesn’t say any of that. He raises one big hand hesitantly - lifts it towards Stan, like he’s about to pat him on the shoulder - and then hastily retreats, awkwardly shoving it into his pocket.

“Take care of yourself.” 

For a moment, it’s like none of the other mourners beyond the narrow hallway exist. It’s just Stan and his father ensconced in a void - the edge of the abyss that he feels like he’s about to topple backwards into. 

_Did you even care at all, you knuckleheaded old fuck?_ he wants to scream. _Your son fucking died, and that’s all you have to say?_

But he’s not the one who died, and neither is Ford - he hopes. That hope is all he has, and it’s all that keeps him going beneath the surface of his assumed exterior on the days where he feels like he’s about to fall apart.

Oh, how Stan hates wearing Ford’s face, his clothes, his _life_. It’s not meant for him, and it’s only because of his own mistakes that he has to - but it’s probably better for everyone else if they believe it’s Ford they’re speaking to. And as much as he hates it - and as much as Ford hated it, too - both of them always addressed their father respectfully. They knew the consequences if they didn’t. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Filbrick doesn’t say anything else as Stan leaves. 

* * *

_February 1985_

“We’re throwing David a bar mitzvah in a couple of weeks. Start of March,” Sherman says on the other end of the line. His voice vibrates with warmth and excitement. “All his friends from school and the kids from his Hebrew school - Hannah’s sisters and their families are coming, too. I’ll post an invite up to you, but - we’ll see you there, right?” 

“I don’t know, Shermie,” Stan says. His voice isn’t as carefully cultivated any more - he’s gradually controlled it to a lower, raspier timbre over the last few years. ‘Ford’ has changed a lot in the eyes of his family; he’s gained weight, he smokes now - not compulsively, but enough to roughen his voice up to a pitch that’s comfortable to maintain. Maybe they think that in the wake of their loss he doesn’t feel the need to distance himself so violently from Stanley’s memory. “It’s off season, but I’ve still gotta work on - y’know, business strategies and whatnot.” 

And that fucking portal. It sits in the basement like the oppressive monolith that it is, cold and imposing with its gaping black maw, and Stan hates it so very much - but it’s the only way for Ford to come home. 

‘Ford’s’ decision to throw in the towel on his scientific research had been met with an unsurprising level of skepticism from their elder brother - but Stan had held firm, defensively arguing how “research grants are peanuts these days” and “science is dangerous, Sherm” - that’s not even a lie, it fucking _is_ , just look at what it did to Ford. Sherman had listened, ummed and aahed, and eventually sighed. 

“Alright, whatever. As long as you know what you’re doing… whatever makes you happy, Stanford.” 

It doesn’t, but it’s pretty much all Stan knows how to do. Nuclear and theoretical physics aren’t exactly a walk in the park, either. 

Back in the present, Sherman sighs. “Look, Stanford, you’re only one state over and - you’re pretty much the only family left on my side. Ma and Pa are all the way over in New Jersey and - I mean, I offered to pay for their plane tickets, but… well, Pa’s kinda... frail, now, and I don’t know if they’re up to coming that far.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want to, Sherm, it’s just - I’ve got a lotta work on right now. Tourist traps aren’t just for spring and summer, ya know?” 

A rustle as Sherman shifts on the other end. “I won’t pressure you, but - you’re more than welcome to stay with us, and we’d really love to see you. I’m sure David would as well.” 

Now it’s Stan’s turn to sigh, and flip through the planner in front of him on the counter to see if there’s anything really important - supplier meetings, etc. - coming up in the first week of March.

Nothing. _God damn it._

“...This thing’s gonna be fully catered, right?” 

Sherman just laughs.

* * *

_September 1994_

Stan winces at the pull in his back as he straightens up from the mailbox, post in hand. _I only turned forty this year, am I seriously that old?_

Or maybe he’s just tired. He’d spent the birthday in the basement with a bottle of whisky, a box of doughnuts and a quantum physics textbook - a pretty terrible combination, as it turns out. Not even alcohol and sugar together can make interdimensional mechanics fun - if anything, it just makes the headache worse. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about what Ford might be doing.

Stan shakes the memory away as he rifles through the envelopes. Junk, junk, bill, junk, bill -

The return address on the last one, an innocuous-looking plain cream envelope, catches his eye. _Sherman & Hannah Pines, 1538 Marigold Avenue, San Francisco, CA. _

Heading inside, Stan drops the bills on the kitchen table and grabs a knife to open Sherman’s letter. Inside, there’s no stationery - but two photos fall out, sliding onto the surface. Stan picks the first one up and squints at it. 

Sherman and Hannah, smiles so bright they practically shine right out of the photo paper, standing next to David - all grown up now, and there’s no mistaking that nose, he’s definitely a Pines - who’s wearing a purple and gold graduation cap and gown, a tasselled gold rope hanging from his shoulders. Next to him there’s a young woman in a floral patterned dress - a little chubby, but no less beautiful for it, with dark hair, big, dark eyes and a soft smile. 

Stan can feel the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth as he flips the photo over to see Sherman’s blocky writing on the back - far removed from Ford’s neat cursive, but not unlike Stan’s own. _Our SF State graduate!_

The next photo actually elicits a noise that’s somewhere between a gasp and a laugh from the back of his throat - David and the same young woman on a grand-looking set of marbled stairs, David in a suit and the woman in a white shift dress, clutching a bouquet of flowers. Their smiles are bright enough to light up the place around them. Stan quickly turns the photo over. 

_Mazel tov! David and his beautiful wife, Jennifer Shapiro Pines, on September 2nd. It was a very small ceremony at the San Francisco courthouse; I was a witness along with Jen’s best friend. The only other attendee besides Hannah was Jen’s mother (we still smashed the wineglass, though). We’re going to have a proper reception party for them once they get the house and David’s job sorted out - probably not until after Jen passes her law exams. Either way, we'll see you there! - Sherman_

Stan’s torn. He’s genuinely delighted for David - he’s a good kid, and he deserves to be happy, and he wants to call Sherman and congratulate him on doing a hell of a better job of parenting than their own father did. On the other hand, this charade he’s keeping up of playing Ford - even if he’s made the character his own over the last twelve years, and it sickens him to reduce _Ford_ , the whole reason he’s here and even doing this, his brother, his erstwhile best friend and partner in crime, once the fucking centre of his _life_ , to that - is so exhausting. It’s a weariness that clings to his bones and drags him down, and every time Stan looks them in the eye and they call him by Ford's name, he can feel a little more of his soul slip away from him. 

  
He hates lying to Sherman, but - Sherman seems so glad to even have this connection, and Stan has to admit to himself that he wasn’t the one who cut Ford off from the outside world in the first place. Ford seemingly did that all on his own. If anything, Stan’s the one picking up the pieces. 

At least, it hurts a little less if he tells himself that. 

Stan inhales, exhales, and picks up the phone. 

* * *

_March 1999_

Stan is now far more familiar with sitting _shiva_ than he’d like to be. 

When the old man passed on a few years back, Ma was distraught, and - there was no way Stan couldn’t go. His feelings about paying respects to the man who threw him out on the street, who only viewed Ford as a long-term nerdy investment that’d finally pay off one day - were mixed, a jumbled mess, and he knew Sherman was probably feeling the same… but the two of them still donned their black suits and _yarmulkes_ and went. For Ma, and Ma only. 

Except that was then, and this is now, and now Stan’s here for Sherman - and David. He sits between his brother and his nephew on one of the low chairs in the living room as a continually revolving door of people come to pay their respects. There’s a large gilt-edged mirror above the mantelpiece, he recalls from David and Jen’s wedding reception, but it’s been covered with a sheet in accordance with tradition. 

It was a short illness, but an aggressive one, Sherman told him. Hannah was still relatively young. Both the husband and the son she left behind are exhausted and red-eyed, wrought with grief, and Stan feels helpless to do much other than pat their shoulders as he rises to go to the kitchen. 

There’s a few people helping themselves to baked goods and coffee, and Stan eyes the bagels as he pours himself a cup. He hasn’t seen Sherman or David eat anything so far - nor has Jen touched the coffee, actually, come to think of it. 

His train of thought is interrupted as David enters. His nephew’s hair is shorter than when he was younger, but still hopelessly unkempt, and his brown eyes are bloodshot. Stan’s heart aches for him, but he doesn’t know what else he can say besides how sorry he is - so he can only watch as a few of the other mourners flock to him, offering hugs and kisses and their sympathies, which he accepts… and once they leave, he leans against the counter with a heavy exhale, tugging at his collar and loosening the button. 

“You doin’ alright, kid?” Stan ventures, and David just sighs and rubs at his eyes. 

“It’s hard. I’m just - I don’t know.” He stares at the floor. “It’s overwhelming. Everyone’s coming to us and saying how amazing Mom was, all this stuff, and - I don’t want to believe she’s gone, you know?” 

Stan doesn’t, but he nods anyway. He takes a halved bagel and haphazardly smears some cream cheese on it before adding some lox and holding it out to his nephew. 

“You should eat somethin’. You’re gonna feel even worse later if you don’t.” 

David wordlessly accepts the plate, staring down at the offering, before picking it up and taking a cautious bite - and wrinkling his nose as he chews. “Tastes like cardboard.” 

“Yeah - the bagels out west definitely don’t compare to back home, huh?” 

His nephew’s lips stretch into a smile at that, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes - but it’s better than nothing. “I just wish she’d been able to stay around for longer. I’m glad she knew before she passed, but…” he puts the bagel back on the plate and sets it on the counter beside him. “It’s… bittersweet, I guess.” 

Stan’s not following. “What is?” 

David’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Oh - right.” He waves a hand and rubs at the corner of his temple, and the smile that quirks the corner of his mouth is rueful - but genuine. “I thought Dad might have told you, but... yeah. Jen’s pregnant.” 

Stan can feel his own face break into a grin at that as his heart leaps - even amid all the sadness, there’s still some joy to be found. “No shit! That’s amazing, buddy.” He crosses the kitchen to wrap an arm round David’s shoulders, squeezing. “Congratulations!” 

“Thanks,” David exhales, and there’s a shadow of a laugh in there - the most Stan’s seen him smile all day. “She had the twelve-week scan last week, so we’re telling people now and - yeah. We’re gonna have our work cut out for us.” He lifts his head to look at Stan with the same shy, rueful smile. “It’s twins.” 

Stan drops his coffee, and the smash of ceramic against tile echoes throughout the whole house.

* * *

_August 1999_

Stan wonders if he would have driven eight hours from Oregon if it was just one baby as opposed to two. He’s not even sure why he’s here in the first place - who even remembers their great-uncles, anyway? Sherman’s the grandpa, and according to David, who had greeted him outside the door of Jen’s hospital room with a weary - but genuine, totally genuine - smile, _very_ proud of it. 

Stan wishes Ford was here. He’d probably be so goddamn irritating, spouting off nerd facts and nitpicking and doing what he does best, but - it’s a big day for their family, and more than anything else he just wants his own twin beside him. 

Or maybe Ford should be the one here in the first place. What’s Stan really done to earn it - besides steal his brother's identity? 

“Dad’s just gone to get some more stuff for Jen - her mom’s flying in from Chicago tomorrow morning.” David grins, and the sound of his voice pulls Stan from his reverie with a jolt. “Had a bowtie on and everything. He’s probably telling the cashiers all about his grandbabies right now.” 

“Everyone doin’ alright, then?” Stan shifts his weight from foot to foot, and David nods. 

“Yeah - there was an… unforeseen complication, with our little boy, but - we’re all okay. Jen’s just resting up, which is why I’m…” he trails off, gestures at the mostly-closed door, and Stan nods. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll stick around to say hi, if it’s all the same.” David smiles at him again. 

“Yeah, of course - she’ll be so happy you came all this way.” He jerks a thumb towards the door, the weariness falling away as it widens into something brighter. “But... I’m sure she won’t mind if I introduce them to you now.” 

Stan’s heart hammers in his chest as David slips back inside the room, closing the door. Why is this such a big deal? It’s not like they’re even his grandkids, they’re Sherman’s, he’s just here and hovering around like an idiot and _why did he come here_ _would Ford even have done that, who the fuck even is Ford at this point because he sure as hell ain’t you_ -

His train of thought is abruptly halted on all tracks as David cautiously steps back out of the room and turns around, two tiny blanket-wrapped bundles in his arms. There’s two little hat-covered heads with wisps of dark hair just visible above the white fabric, one pink and the other blue. 

  
Twins. A girl and a boy. 

“Uncle Stan,” David’s smile is wider than anything he’s ever seen on the kid before... and in the rich, warm glow that the setting California sun casts from the window behind them, for a second it’s like his nephew and the two tiny newborns in his arms are the only people in the corridor, the whole hospital, the entire goddamn _world._ “Meet Mabel and Mason Pines.” 

* * *

_November 2001_

The house is abuzz with murmurs, chatter, and the louder it gets the more something unpleasant clambers up the inside of Stan’s chest. 

_I’m not a prayin’ man, but… seriously, Lord, if you’re up there, this is the last fuckin’ shiva I want to sit for a long time. You listenin’, big guy?_

He probably isn’t. He certainly didn’t spend much time listening to Stan’s hopelessly futile requests in the 70s. 

Sherman, gone - a heart attack in the night, quick and (hopefully) painless. He wasn’t even particularly old - he was still in his fifties. David had barely been able to choke the words out down the phone before Stan was pulling his suitcase out from under his bed. 

To the outside world, Stan - _Stanford_ \- is the last Pines boy standing, and he hopes desperately, fervently, that it’s not true. Sherman was the bridge, the reason he can even say he has a family any more, and without him - it doesn’t feel right. 

If nothing else, Stan hopes there’s an afterlife where he can be with Hannah again. 

David and Jen’s twins, Mabel and Mason, are there as well. Those two can’t even sit _shiva_ \- they can barely stand still, running and stumbling all over the place on their tiny sock feet. Mabel’s wearing cotton tights, and when she’s not trying to shove everything in reach of her grabby little hands into her mouth, she’s sliding across the hardwood floor with a delighted squeal to a chorus of giggles and adoring coos. Mason slips and lands hard on his backside at one point, and cries until Sherman’s secretary - a petite Latina called Gloria, with sharp eyes but a kind smile - picks him up and bounces him on her lap. 

David and Jen both look exhausted; his nephew in particular is worn down and red-eyed once more. He’s only thirty and he’s already got a wife, kids, a mortgage, and now both his parents have passed. Talk about an onslaught. Stan’s all too familiar with what it means to experience life in all its cruelty before you’re truly ready, and his heart goes out to the kid - because at the end of the day, even if he’s an adult, he’s still always going to be the bright-eyed kid who sat beside Stan at his own funeral and talked about the stars. 

Eventually the two babies - well, toddlers - wear themselves down, whimpering and whining and clinging to their parents. Stan’s so caught up in the onslaught of mourners rallying round to offer their condolences and tell him what a good and kind man his elder brother was that he doesn’t even notice the two of them getting scooped up and carried off by their father - until Jen accosts him at the entrance of the kitchen, her black dress rumpled and the string of pearls around her neck slightly askew. Stan can’t imagine his mother looking much different when he and Ford were babies - and then the ache wells up in his chest at the sudden reminder that Ford should be here to see Sherman off.

“Stan,” Jen’s voice jolts him back to earth, “have you seen David?” 

“Uh…” Stan blinks, and looks around, but he can’t see his lanky nephew’s chestnut curls anywhere. “No, actually. You know where he got to?” 

“He said he was going to put the twins down for their nap, but it’s been over an hour - I only just noticed.” Jen worries at her lip. “I want to go and check, but - people are still coming, and I think we’re about to run out of coffee, and -” 

“Alright, hon,” Stan puts an arm around her, guiding her into the kitchen. She watches as he pours a cup of coffee - she’s right, they’re running pretty low - and adds sugar and cream, before picking up one of the muffins on the table and shoving both into her hands. “You don’t gotta worry about the coffee, that’s the mourners’ job. You’ve been either runnin’ this whole show or runnin’ after the little goobers. Take a break, okay?” He waves a hand in the direction of the back porch, through the glass-panelled door. “Go and sit down, get some air. I’ll find David.” 

The smile she gives him in return is wan, but genuine. “Thank you.” 

The polished hardwood steps creak beneath Stan’s feet as he ascends the stairs. There’s photos along the wall on the way up - Sherman and Hannah with David as a boy, that same picture Stan has buried somewhere in his albums of David and Jen on their wedding day, David’s college graduation portrait… 

...and then the final one gives Stan a jolt, causing him to almost lose his footing, and he has to grab the banister. Sherman and Hannah’s wedding day, the newlyweds flanked by their families on either side - Pa standing straight and rigid, barely a hint of a smile, Ma smiling brightly enough for the both of them… and then Stan and Ford, in their goofy matching suits, hair already breaking free from the pomade Ma slathered their heads with beforehand. 

Stan swallows, and steadies himself. He just has to get back to Oregon, and keep working. He’ll find the other two journals Ford left behind - Gravity Falls isn’t a big place. The pieces will come together one day. They have to. 

The master bedroom’s empty, spotless with a neatly made-up bed. There’s a framed photo of David and Jen with Mabel and Mason on the side table, both babies staring at the camera with wide, curious eyes. 

When Stan cautiously edges the door to the guest room open, that effectively answers Jen’s question. The twins are asleep under a blanket on the bed, practically a mirror image of each other with the pacifiers in their mouths and their chubby little hands curled into loose fists… and David’s there beside them, slumped against the edge of the bed, head pillowed on his arm as his fingers absently comb through Mason’s curls. _Family resemblance,_ Stan thinks absently. 

“Uh, hey.” 

David’s response is delayed, like there’s a time lag between the words leaving Stan’s lips and his ears hearing them - but he lifts his head, and upon seeing Stan, straightens up. “Oh - hi, Stan. I was just, uh -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stan cuts him off with a wave of his hand, kneeling to take up the same position on the other side of the bed - and _oof,_ his knees and back should not hurt as much as they do, he’s not even fifty yet… but he makes it to the carpeted floor, tucking his legs beneath him. “Jen just wanted to know where you were. You doin’ okay?” 

David’s voice is devoid of all mirth when he replies. “Well, my dad died, so I wouldn’t say great.” 

Stan winces. “Yeah, I figured.” 

At that, shame immediately crosses David’s tired face. “No, I - sorry. That was kind of snarky. I didn’t mean it.” 

Stan shrugs. “Hey, it’s a rough day - I’m not gonna judge. I’ve heard worse.” 

Across from him, David simply exhales, his fingers returning to stroke through his son’s curls, and a companionable quiet descends as Stan’s gaze trails over to Mabel. Both kids’ hair is the same rich chestnut shade as their dad’s, and where Mason’s is growing into a curly mop, Mabel’s is longer and wavy, currently tied up in fluffy little ponytails on either side of her head with sparkly pink scrunchies. It’s simultaneously one of the cutest and most ridiculous things Stan has ever seen. 

He knows Sherman would love it. Ford would probably love it, too… and even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Stan would love it enough for the both of them. 

“I feel like a phony,” David murmurs, quietly enough that Stan almost doesn’t catch it - but he does, and he can feel his brow crease in confusion. 

“Huh?” 

“I mean…” his nephew averts his eyes, staring intently at his son’s face. The kid’s probably dreaming about pudding or something dumb. “I don’t feel like I should have any of this. House, wife, kids. Dad helped me out so much, you know? And…” he trails off, voice cracking. “He was so good at all that. I didn’t worry about stuff as much, because he and Mom were always there for me. And then we lost Mom, and -” he cuts himself off with what sounds disturbingly liked a choked-up sob. “I don’t know what to do.” 

Ah, shit. Stan doesn’t know what to do either. 

David’s shoulders shake as he takes a juddering breath, fisting the other hand in the duvet, and Stan can only watch with sympathy so visceral it’s making his chest hurt. “I never m-meant to take Dad for granted, but - he was such a good dad, and now I’ve got these beautiful kids, and he loved being their grandpa so much -” he presses his face into the duvet, muffling his voice, “God, I love them _so_ much, but I’m so _scared_ that I won’t -”

“Hey, hey, listen,” Stan waves his hands, almost pleadingly, and David lifts his head to look at him with those wide, red-rimmed eyes. “It’s okay, kid. You’re gonna be fine, alright? Just… trust me.” 

_Or don’t. You think I’m my brother. I’ve been lying to you for years._

“You’re sure you’re not just saying that?” His nephew’s voice is small, tense and on the edge of crumbling under the weight of its own grief. 

“I…” Stan hesitates. “I mean, I don’t think so.” The feelings begin to unscramble into words, clicking together in his head. “You love these kids, right? You’d have to be an idiot not to see that. And - it was the same for Sherm, with you. That’s why he did right by ya all those years.” Conviction clings to his tone as he realises that what he’s saying isn’t just simple, it’s true. “You love them, so - you’ll be the dad they deserve. Maybe it won’t be easy, but - you’re gonna figure it out, and you’re not alone. Okay?” 

David exhales shakily, propping his elbow on the edge of the bed and raking the fingers of his free hand through his hair. “Yeah. Okay.” He looks over at Stan, briefly worrying at the inside of his lip - before the corner of his mouth quirks upward in a quiet display of gratitude. “Thanks, Stan. I appreciate it.” His fingers scruff through his hair briefly, before rubbing at his temple. “And - sorry about that, just now. It’s been…” he lets his eyes fall to Mason again. “Pretty rough.” 

“S’okay,” Stan shrugs. “Glad I could say somethin’ right.” And he genuinely is. 

David smiles ruefully. “Even without everything else, parenting’s just - God, Jen’s amazing at it. She reads all the books and she’s so on top of everything - and then she went back to work, and I was at home, and one day Mabel developed a fever and Dipper -”

“Dipper?”

David pauses, and the fingers that had been combing through his son’s curls move to push them back. “Remember this?” 

Stan leans forward, staring at the array of lines and dots on the soft, smooth skin of his great-nephew’s forehead that come together to form a very familiar-looking constellation. He vaguely remembers it from the day they were born, but he’d thought it was just discolouration - he’s pretty sure babies don’t come out looking perfect. “Huh. That’s… a thing.” 

“The Big Dipper.” David smiles almost reverently, stroking his thumb across Mason’s forehead. “It’s one of my favourites. Dad said Mom might have had something to do with it.” 

Stan snorts. “I’m sure the little squirt’ll thank you for it when he’s older.” 

“Right. Anyway, Mabel had a fever - not a bad one, but still not normal - and Dipper wouldn’t stop crying, and I was completely freaking out, so I called Dad - he was there in half an hour, and he got everything under control before Jen got home. Totally bailed me out.” His expression turns wistful. “That’s just the kind of dad I want to be for these two. The one who knows what he’s doing.” 

“Well, I can tell you that Sherman sure as hell didn’t learn from our old man,” Stan affirms, extending his own hand to stroke one of Mabel’s fluffy little ponytails. Her hair is like spun silk against the rough, worn pads of his fingertips. 

Screw it. He doesn’t care if it’s out of character for Stanford Pines, the scientist - he’s not even a scientist any more, he’s a business owner, and now he’s an uncle - twice over. Three times, if you count the fact that they’re twins. He’s not a father, and he probably won’t ever be, but - he still has a family, even if it’s fragmented and extended and not entirely conventional. 

“Listen, David.” David looks at him questioningly, hand stilling against Mason’s hair. “I don’t know anythin’ about bein’ a parent, but - I cut myself off from family before, and I don’t wanna do that again.” The cut-off wasn’t necessarily his choice, but it was probably Ford’s, and if Stan can build the bridge in his place - maybe it’ll just be something else he can come home to. “So - anythin’ you need, you call me. I can’t really leave the business durin’ the tourist season unless it’s an emergency, but anythin’ else - you need some help with money, you need someone to watch these goobers…” here, he lets his gaze fall to Mabel again, “...just, you know where to find me. I miss your dad, too, but - maybe if we have each other, we’ll get through it. Okay?” 

The smile David offers him in response is wan, but genuine - an echo of his wife’s earlier. “Okay.” He sighs, pulling his hand away from Mason with a visible effort, and rising to his feet. “And - Stan?” 

“Mm?” It’s hard to tear his gaze away from Mabel’s face. She looks like a doll, lying there with her chubby little arms up and her long lashes dusting her rosy cheeks, and there’s some raw urge to just pick her up and hold her and tell her how precious she is - how precious they both are. 

Stan hopes they won’t turn out like him and Ford. 

David comes to kneel down next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Thank you.” 

* * *

_May 2012_

Stan groans audibly as the phone rings, drowning out the sound of the television. “Soos! Get in here and answer the phone!” 

There’s no response, and Stan belatedly remembers that Soos has gone home for the night. 

With an even louder groan, and several _pops_ in his back, Stan hauls himself out of his chair and trudges over to the phone, which is still trilling away. He snatches the receiver from the cradle and lifts it to his ear. “Mystery Shack.” 

“Uncle Stan? Hey!” 

There’s only one person who calls him that. “David?” 

It’s hard to keep the surprise out of his voice. He gets yearly Christmas photo cards from them - it’s kind of alarming how much the kids have grown with each passing year, even if they’re still so short they barely come up to their parents’ waists. In the most recent one, Mabel’s holding four stuffed animals and Dipper looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. Even so, he hasn’t seen them for a few years now - the Shack keeps getting busier and busier, and as it turns out, running a business is a year-round job. 

Right, David’s still on the phone. “Uh, hey, buddy. How’s it goin’?”

“We’re all okay,” David says, a little quickly. “Jen’s fine, kids are fine. How are you?” 

“Yeah, not bad. Business is goin’ good.” It’s a shame the portal isn’t. Trust David to catch him on the first night off he’s had from working on it in two weeks - he’s so close to figuring this out, right on the cusp, but the answers he needs are evidently in one of Ford’s other journals - and so he’s removed himself from the equation temporarily, taking the time to clear his head with some mindless TV. 

David laughs on the other end of the line, but the lack of mirth is palpable. “Wish I could say the same.” 

Stan’s been there more times than he cares to remember. “Sorry to hear that. You need some help?” 

“You know anything about computers?” 

Stan doesn’t. Soos might, but considering some of the kid’s independent projects he’s been unfortunate enough to bear witness to, he doubts it. 

“No dice, kid. Sorry.” 

“Hah, yeah.” A rustle, and then what sounds like children fighting in the background. “Well, there was actually something else - oh God, hang on.” A clunk, and then his nephew’s voice sounds again, muffled this time - “Mabel! We agreed, no more glitter spitballs!” A distinctly childish whine in the distance, followed by, "I don't care if he's being a buttface, we had an agreement!" - and then another rustle as the phone is picked back up. “Sorry about that. Anyway - Jen and I were talking, and we were actually wondering if you’d be willing to take Dipper and Mabel for the summer.” 

Of all the requests Stan had been expecting from his nephew, this was not one of them. He hasn’t babysat for them in years. “Ha, good one, buddy. I thought you just said you wanted me to look after your kids for the summer.” 

David’s tone is nonplussed. “No, that’s what I said.” 

“Wh - seriously?” Kids? Staying in the Mystery Shack? It’s already bad enough with Wendy and Soos, and they don’t even live here. “How come?”

A rush of static as David sighs heavily. “It hasn’t been a great year at school for them - we had to get Mabel braces last month, and I think the other kids have been making fun of her, and then Dipper won’t tell us anything but we’re both pretty sure he’s getting bullied - but we can’t do anything apart from ask the teachers to keep an eye out, because he won’t tell us what’s going on. And…” he trails off, hesitates. “We were hoping to take them to Florida or Mexico or somewhere this year, but business hasn’t been great for me the last few months and Jen’s work is paying most of the bills at this point. I don’t know. You’re out in the woods, it’s calm, it’s green - I just think a change of scene would be good for them, you know?” 

Stan’s not sure if he’d describe the errant scampfires - or any of the other weird shit he’s seen in this town - as ‘calm’. “I dunno, David. I’m not sure it’s the best place for kids.” 

David scoffs. “So what, you’re telling me there’s no kids in this town?” 

Well, he’s not wrong. 

“I mean - there are, but… I got a business to run, y’know? I’m always happy to help you out babysittin’ when I can, but - I’m busy durin’ the day. It’s a full-time job, I got employees and everythin’.” 

And, for the millionth time, a literal interdimensional portal in the basement. 

“So they could help you out,” David persists. “Room and board in exchange for work, right?” 

Stan can’t really argue with that. Wendy’s already made it pretty clear that she won’t clean the bathrooms, and in a place as old and weather-beaten as this sometimes there are too many things for Soos to fix all at once. 

And… he hasn’t seen the kids in years, but he still keeps all of those dumb Christmas cards tucked away in his bedside drawer. Sometimes he’ll flip through them and watch them grow up in front of his eyes. 

He’s been living as Ford for so long, to the point where the pain has almost faded to a dull ache - at least until he closes his eyes at night and the memories wash over him, somehow freezing and scalding at the same time. And yet he rebuilt this one bridge, meeting Sherman and his family halfway, so Ford will have a family to come back to. Who’s to say they can’t be here waiting for him?

He’s probably going to regret this. Actually, no - he’s definitely going to regret this. 

“Alright,” he allows, with a sigh. “I’ll think about it.” 

He’s already made up his mind before he puts the phone down.

* * *

In Oregon, in 1982, Stanley Pines takes a deep breath as he places a brick against the accelerator pedal of his car, and prepares to die. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please do leave a comment if you're so inclined, I would love to know your thoughts ♡


End file.
